


Cry for Me

by SoftObsidian74



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Dark, Dark Harry, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, Don't Judge Me, F/M, I Don't Even Know
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-02
Updated: 2013-09-02
Packaged: 2017-12-25 08:37:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,768
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/951017
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SoftObsidian74/pseuds/SoftObsidian74
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Cho is always crying for some reason or another. Just once, Harry wants her to cry for him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Cry for Me

“That’s just how I feel, Harry!” she said with a trembling voice.

She was crying again. 

He was used to it by now, but still it never failed to make his insides ball into a knot. He was right, of course, there was no excuse she could possibly give for her friend ratting them out, even when cornered by the likes of Umbridge. She knew it, yet she was defending Marietta out of blind loyalty. And that wasn’t good enough, not for something this important. 

He clenched his hand and winced, cursing himself under his breath for forgetting the freshness of the wound. His hand looked aged, the new scar tissue forming over the old, much like a worn black board that still held the traces of lessons from weeks before. 

She noticed, looking down at the blood that was caking up in the cracks where the words “I must not tell lies” were carved. Fresh tears surfaced in her eyes, which only angered him more. 

“She fucked everything up for all of us. How can you stand by someone like that?”

“She’s my friend!” she said pushing her hands up her cheeks to wipe the wetness away.

“Will you still defend her when there’s an attack, and we can’t even defend ourselves?”

“If that happened, it wouldn't be her fault! Her mum works for the Ministry; she had no choice!”

“Do you realize what this means? Do you know what’s at stake? This whole time was nothing but a waste,” he said, looking at her regretfully.

“You’re not just talking about the D.A. are you? You’re talking about this…about us? Well, if that’s how you feel, don't waste anymore time with me,” she said, her voice breaking with one last tired sob, before she turned from him, and began walking briskly up the corridor toward the Ravenclaw common room. 

He stood there staring after her, fuming. Why was he feeling guilty? He was the one that should be angry, almost a year’s worth of training was for naught. Because of her friend, they were now defenseless at the hands of a sadistic tyrant who ruled the school armed with Ministry decrees and an endless supply of Blood Quills. 

He was the one with the damn bloody hand and the promise of many more for the rest of the school year. 

So why was she crying? 

He took his time walking to his own House and crawled into bed long after everyone else, to fall into a restless sleep. 

That night he had the same dream. He was running down that strange hallway again, only to find himself gripping the doorknob of the same door, the one that never opened, at least not for him. 

Only this time, instead of frustration, he felt anger…no, this was rage. Darkness was overtaking him, threatening to swallow him whole. There was pain, loathing, and contempt for everything and everyone spreading throughout his body like rapid fire consuming wood. 

He knew it wasn’t his rage, but his body owned it nonetheless. 

It was him. He was in his head again, in his dreams, spilling into his thoughts and feelings like waste into a cesspool. But when he was in his head like this, Harry couldn’t tell which parts were his own, and what parts belonged to the other. 

There was a loud crack and Harry woke with a start, his breath caught in his throat and his body slick with sweat. He looked over and saw that Ron was sleeping peacefully as evidenced by his loud snore. Seamus and Dean’s soft breathing could be heard through their curtains, and Neville lay still and silent in his sleep, as always. 

He was the only one who had been awoken by the sound of glass cracking.

Or maybe it’s my mind that’s cracking, he thought.

He slid out of bed, got dressed, and grabbed his Invisibility Cloak before slipping out to walk the halls. 

He didn’t know where he was going, or why he felt the need to walk, but it helped. The rage, loathing, and hate that he knew didn’t belong to him were slowly simmering down, becoming muted, and throbbing softly like a headache fading away. 

He walked and walked, trying different stairs and new passages before returning to the familiar, and stopping by a window to look out across the expansive lawn leading to the Forbidden Forest. At its edge, he saw the great stone memorial to Cedric. He had never gone to visit it. 

He didn’t have to; Cedric came to him every night, in his dreams. 

He looked away from it and over the lawn again before looking down, and then he saw her. She was out of her bed as well, and walking across the lawn toward the forest, towards the memorial. 

Something in him broke, like a dam finally giving way to the pressure of the water behind it. The anger that had awoken him began to rise once again. He could feel the hate spreading, and a loathing he had never known before pulsating under his skin.

He had to purge it. 

And so before he could think about what he was doing or wrap his head around why he was doing it, he found himself walking under the Cloak outside. He walked carefully so that the sound of his feet on the freshly trimmed grass could not be heard. 

Finally, he came upon her and stood behind her, quietly watching her. She was whispering something as she looked up at the centerpiece of the memorial. There was a picture of Cedric smiling and waving to a crowd mounted there. It had been taken right after he had pulled her out of the water during the second challenge of last year’s Tri-Wizard Tournament. 

The memory of that moment seemed ancient. That was a better time, before Cedric’s death, before Harry had been tortured with the Cruciatus, before he had come back to remind Harry that he was cursed and anyone near him might as well be. 

She was crying again. 

Only this time, when he heard it, he felt no sympathy, no pity, no frustration, he wasn’t even confused. The only thing he felt was his hate, Harry’s own loathing, and something else…resolution. 

“He’s dead you know. He’s not coming back, and there’s nothing anyone can do about it,” he said in a cold lifeless voice.

She turned around, startled, eyes wide, staring into nothing. She scanned the air before her, looking for signs of him even as she began to back up towards the stone erection behind her.

He stepped forward, closing the gap between them until her back was pressed against it. She began to breath faster, her eyes darting about looking for signs of an escape. Suddenly, she moved to the side as if to make her getaway when he reached out and grabbed her by the throat. A scream threatened to escape from her quivering lips and so he reached out with his other hand to cover her mouth.

The cloak slowly slipped off of his head and down his back onto the ground. His hand closed tighter around her throat and he used it to push her further into the stone behind her, covering Cedric’s face.

Her tears were sliding down his hand as his nails dug into her cheeks. Her hands were scratching the wrists around her throat, drawing fresh blood, but he didn’t seem deterred or even aware of it. His bright green eyes were no longer so, instead they were dark with something she had never seen in him before. 

“If I uncover your mouth, you have to promise not to scream. If you do, I’ll make sure to give you something to scream about, understand?”

She nodded her head vigorously and so he slowly released his grip on her face. She inhaled deeply, catching her breath before letting out a shaky sigh.

“Harry, please stop, what’s wrong with you? Let me go,” she cried as she continued to scratch and pull at the hand around her throat. 

Using the hand he held around her throat, he pulled her away from the stone memorial until his nose was pressed against hers. She flinched as if he were about to yell into her face, but when he spoke it was in a low hushed whisper, the kind one uses to tell a lover a secret or compliment. 

“You weren’t there. You didn’t watch him die. You don’t have to live with the guilt of bringing him to his death. You don’t have to replay his death over and over trying to convince yourself it wasn’t your fault.”

“Harry, I’m sorry. I’m so sorry,” she said shaking her head as much as she could.

And still she was crying. 

He gripped her throat tighter, pushing her back against the stone. 

“Harry, let me go, please,” she choked out. 

She stood trembling in his grip against the wall, trying to breath. He pushed his body against her, his breath hot on her face, his lips brushing hers as he stared into her watery eyes.

Letting go of her throat, he brought his hand up to caress her cheek tenderly. She let out a soft sigh, looking up into his face with the hope that the Harry Potter she once thought she could fall in love with had returned to his senses. 

And then it came harsh and sudden, blinding her vision. 

He slapped her—hard. She let out a shocked gasp and was about to say something in protest when he put his finger up to her lips signaling her to be silent. The fire burning in his eyes adding weight to the unspoken threat of much worse hanging in the air.

She stilled, watching, waiting for what he would do next, her wet eyes begging him to be done with it so that she could be free from him. 

He realized that his body was tense and ready for a fight. But she wasn’t fighting, and instead of relief, he felt his anger grow because of it. His anger, unable to find release through a struggle, joined his steadfast lust for her, causing his cock to twitch against her. She inhaled deeply when she felt it against her thigh, looking at him with new terror. 

He grabbed her wrists and brought them above her head, pushing them roughly into the stone, scraping them carelessly, and invoking new tears.

“Harry no, please don’t…don’t,” she cried.

“You act like you’re the only one who’s suffered,” he said as he groped one of her breasts roughly, pinching and pulling through the fabric before reaching down under her shirt to repeat the same on her bare skin.

She half moaned, half whimpered as she squirmed in his grip. He twisted a nipple harshly while studying her face, before leaning in to whisper into her ear. 

“You don’t know what suffering is. I do. Shall I show you?”

She shook her head and moved in to kiss him as if to soothe him and bring him back to his senses. He let her, opening his lips to accept her tongue, allowing it to caress his own before returning the caress and sliding his along her lips to taste her. It was like before; wet, messy, and salty from her tears. He drew back in disgust, the loathing he felt before flaring, his eyes no longer his own, he saw her clearly now.

Her tears, her longing for affection, her guilt, her confusion; they were all signs of her weakness. And her weakness reminded him of his own, and suddenly he hated himself and her very much. 

He reached down into her sweats, running his hand roughly past the edge of her knickers and over her mound to find her opening, which was unsurprisingly dry. He felt her shudder before he roughly thrust two fingers into her tight and resistant center. She cried out louder when he did and began to resist, trying to kick and scratch him wildly.

Finally, she was offering something to satiate his desire to fight, something that could unleash the anger he had been trying to purge.

His fingers still buried deeply in her, he used his free hand to slap her once more before returning his hand around her throat and using it to push her against the stone again, this time much harder. 

Her back hit the granite slate hard and her head smacked against the stone with an audible thud, causing her eyes to widen and then flutter as a small low groan left her lips.

He began to slowly slide his fingers in and out of her, watching her face as he did. She grimaced and he couldn’t help but smirk at her body’s treasonous response to his invasion. She was no longer dry, but she was still crying. 

“I used you think your tears meant something, but they don’t. You cry for yourself,” he said, as he began to quicken the thrust of his fingers, finding her entrance becoming slicker with each movement. 

“You cry over everything,” he said, finally withdrawing his fingers, coated with her arousal, before pulling down her sweats to her knees and clumsily fumbling with the button and zipper of his own trousers. Finally with his erection free, he pressed it against her, rubbing it against her wet opening.

“You cry for nothing,” he whispered harshly, his jaw tight, his eyes dangerously lit with new contempt.

“Harry, please. Please don’t do this…not like this,” she said with a shaky voice, searching his face for a trace of kindness.

“No, Cho, I’m tired. I’m tired of watching you cry for everything and for nothing,” he said sliding himself more forcibly at her entrance, positioning himself for the violation.

She went rigid in anticipation, waiting for it. “I can’t help it, I can’t stop it,” she said apologetically as if to reason with him.

“I know you can’t. But just this once...” he said, pausing in mid-sentence before thrusting into her roughly, causing her to cry out and shift against him. He leaned into her, flicking his tongue out over her earlobe before whispering into her ear.

“I want you to cry, for me.” 

He slid almost all the way out of her before pushing quickly back into her again. Releasing her wrists, he grabbed her arse, using his nails to dig into her flesh, he pulled her from the stone onto his length. He began slamming into her, unrelenting and clear in his intentions to achieve his release. He could feel her hot tears on his shoulder as sunk his teeth into her neck until he tasted blood. She let out a pained gasp and then a soft whimper, holding onto his shoulders as if not sure whether to push him away or pull him in. She ground her hips unconsciously against him, spurring him closer to it, and he pulled back, looking at her. 

This time she was looking back at him directly as she cried unabashedly, as if to communicate that these tears were for him. It was his undoing. His body tensed and then shook as he released himself deep inside her, pushing her back against the stone. He rested against her for a few moments before releasing her from his grip and backing up. 

She slapped him fiercely and stood looking at him with reproach, anger, and disappointment. 

“You don't have to worry about seeing my tears ever again,” she said before pulling up her sweats and running back up to the castle. 

Harry stood fixed and staring at the ground for a long time before falling against the memorial, and then sliding down it to sit on the ground. He looked up at the castle, and then turned his eyes up towards the starless sky. 

He had come to purge them; the rage, the loathing, and the contempt. But instead of relieving himself of them, he now felt worse. 

And so he began to cry.

He cried for everyone who had suffered for knowing him. He cried for Cho and what he had done to her. He cried for the members of the D.A. who now bore their own hand wounds for supporting him. He cried for Cedric and his unfortunate luck of arriving at a Cup meant to bring Harry to his death. He cried for his parents who had been cursed to bear a son who would bring death to their door. 

And then, finally, Harry cried for himself.


End file.
